


Orion

by yellow_crayon



Series: Constellations [2]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Black Panther (2018) Spoilers, Bottom T'Challa (Marvel), Cousin Incest, Erik is a Troll, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mpreg, Multiple Orgasms, Post-Canon, Topping from the Bottom, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-20 08:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13714299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellow_crayon/pseuds/yellow_crayon
Summary: He crosses over to him slowly and presses one hand over the man’s warm chest. T’Challa can feel the raised scars beneath Erik’s clothes, and the one his blade had left that day in the mines.Their eyes meet, Erik’s heart pounding loud and strong beneath his fingers.T’Challa sighs when the alpha leans down to nose at his neck, inhaling the soft scent of wild Moroccan roses that Shuri insists he smells like.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BeanieBaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeanieBaby/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Орион](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14196117) by [kotokoshka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kotokoshka/pseuds/kotokoshka)



> Ok, I finally climbed out of my swamp to type this up. My gift exchange with the lovely BeanieBaby, who has agreed to write one back after she watches the film. 
> 
> Girl, obviously I was gonna write porn for these two. Have you seen the way they look at each other? *Eye-roll* 
> 
> Anyhoo, my take on their dynamics is that Erik is kind of the wild aggressive alpha type, and T'Challa the calm authoritative omega who is really the one in control. 
> 
> Enjoy! *Focus on the porn and not my gramatical errors*
> 
> Chinese translation: http://www.mtslash.net/thread-250278-1-1.html

The low insistent burn starts midday, and by the time night settles over Wakanda, T'Challa is sweating profusely beneath his robes. Shuri notices the moisture dotting his brow despite the chill of the night and purses her lips.

“You forgot to take your suppressants again, brother,” Her words are gently scolding and he does not have the strength tonight to keep up the king’s mask, not in front of his sister anyway. So T’Challa does not fight her when Shuri whisks him off to the lab for the last minute shots that will take the edge off his impending heat.

“Take your shirt off,” Shuri orders briskly, syringe in hand. She wrinkles her nose at his scent when T’Challa eases his robes open with unsteady hands. He drops his gaze when she sees the set of crescent bite marks at his throat, barely visible beneath the Black Panther necklace, but she knows where to look and the claiming mark lies there, silent and mocking, just like the eyes of the man who had placed it there.

“Don’t, Shuri,” T’Challa says before she can open her mouth. She harrumphs. Their medical technologies are advance enough to erase every trace of the bond between him and Erik Killmonger, but her brother has always been fond of punishing himself.

“You don’t ever regret it?” She asks instead, pressing the cold metal against his abdomen and delivering the first shot. He would need to come to her for the second one in 24 hours, but the drugs would ensure a relatively stress-free and mellow experience.

“It is my fault, not his,” T’Challa points out, “I lost the suppressant kit you sent with me to Vienna, and the stress from father’s untimely death made it all the worse. I bit him first.”

Well, technically they had bitten each other at the same time, but Shuri needn’t learn of that minor detail.

“Call me if you need me, brother,” Shuri’s mouth is still twisted into a disapproving frown, but her eyes are alight with humor when she leans in and whispers, “I told the staff to put some newly designer toys in your emergency ‘hump drawer', you should check those out and give me some feedback.”

She yelps when he flicks her in the ear.

“Do not speak to your king this way, Shuri,” T’Challa says seriously, fighting off the blush.

She rolls her eyes, “Now you pull the king card? Boring.”

Shaking his head and trying to push away all thoughts that keep crossing back to the angry alpha locked away in Wakanda’s cells, T’Challa walks quickly out of Shuri’s lab.

 

* * *

 

“Where do you think you are going at this hour?” Okoye’s voice is steely behind him and T’Challa freezes involuntarily, the female alpha’s intimidating presence sending a shiver down his spine in his weakened state.

“To find Shuri for the second dose,” He lies smoothly.

“You don’t need a booster for another thirteen hours, T’Challa, where were you going? Tell the truth this time.”

When he does not answer, she draws in a sharp breath and hisses in scandalized disbelief, “were you headed to see _him?_ ”

“I was not.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

“I need—“

“You do not need the cock of an outsider, one that has usurped you throne and mocked the Royal family at every chance!” She insists angrily, then in a softer voice, says, “I know you wish to repent for your father’s wrongdoings, but this is not the way, my King.”

“You are right, Okoye, I do not need him, I _want_ him,” He looks her in the eye and this time it is Okoye that averts her gaze. “I can pretend not to in front of my people and country, but here, now, I do not have the strength.”

Okoye exhales, her shoulders slumping with resignation. When T’Challa turns to the door once more, she stops him again, a sad little smile flickering across her face briefly as she says, “stay, the Sisters and I will bring him to you. Your heat should not be spent in a prison cell, your Highness.”

He bites his lip and squeezes her hand in gratitude, "Very well.”

 

* * *

 

T’Challa scents Erik before he sees him.

Erik Stevens smells like the sea, of salt damp wind and wild freedom, and he suddenly recalls their first time together, the flashing whiteness of the alpha’s smile, his solid presence at T’Challa’s back, the warm palm pressed against the small of his back. Erik had reminded T’Challa of home, and later that night, under the protective cover of night, he had briefly abandoned his duties as the new leader of a country and lost himself to the pleasures of the human body. Shaken to the core had not been a strong enough phrase to describe how he had felt that day when Erik had stood across from him, a challenger to the throne and their intimate secrets bared for the world to see.

“Looks like someone wants a good hard fuck,” Erik sounds vindictively gleeful. It is a front, T’Challa knows. He has seen the wounded child beneath the hardened man when Erik had wept at the beauty of the fiery sunset in T’Challa’s arms that day. He hears the sound of flesh meeting flesh and Erik grunts.

“Okoye, that is enough,” T'Challa calls out before he can stop himself. His heart is thumping like crazy beneath his chest, and a fine layer of sweat has formed despite the light robes. The emergency suppressants do not seem to offer any resistance against Erik’s overpowering presence. He descends the stairs slowly, feeling the uncomfortable wetness grow between his legs with every step, and by the time T’Challa stops in front of the bound alpha, Erik’s dark gaze is solely focused on him with an all-consuming intensity.

“Leave us,” T'Challa tells the Dora Milaje. The female alphas shift in agitation as one, their protective instincts at odds with the command.

“Do not make me repeat myself,” He frowns at them just as Erik says, “didn’t y’all hear what he said? Move bitches.”

“You will hold your tongue, Killmonger,” Ayo snarls, lifting her spear, but Erik isn’t paying them any attention. T’Challa purposefully gives him a wide berth when he walks over to Okoye, who is grinding her teeth to dust at the sight of the male alpha in the room. T’Challa notices Erik take a minute step his way to scent him, dark eyes raving hungrily over his robe-clad body and lips twisting when the female alphas circle around him protectively.

“That is enough, all of you,” Frustrated by Okoye’s overprotective nature, T’Challa squeezes his eyes shut briefly, then in a lower voice, he says to the women, “I can handle myself. Leave now, I cannot promise to hold back for much longer.”

Aneka, the youngest of the warrior women, looks a bit scandalized at his words. T’Challa lifts a silent brow at her when she opens her mouth.

“He is...a very fine-looking specimen, objectively speaking,” She says, sweating bullets under everyone’s gaze. Then, she adds tentatively, “Have fun, my King?”

“Aneka!” The women hiss as one. Aneka cringes and T’Challa snorts with amusement at her dismayed face as her sisters drag her from the room, leaving him and Erik alone.

“What’s up?” It’s the same annoying American greeting. Erik is challenging him with that infuriating smirk, yet again.

T’Challa doesn’t understand why, but Ramonda had likened it to little boys pulling at little girls’ pigtails a few days after they had locked Erik up, and it all suddenly seemed to make more sense. Needless to say, his mother did not, and still does not, approve.

“Your wounds have healed?” He asks quietly instead. T’Challa refuses to stoop to Erik’s level.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Erik smirks and rakes his eyes down T’Challa’s body.

“I would, actually,” He replies honestly, and feels a tiny bit of satisfaction when Erik blinks in confusion. He crosses over to him slowly and presses one hand over the man’s warm chest. T’Challa can feel the raised scars beneath Erik’s clothes, and the one his blade had left that day in the mines.

Their eyes meet, Erik’s heart pounding loud and strong beneath his fingers.

T’Challa sighs when the alpha leans down to nose at his neck, inhaling the soft scent of wild Moroccan roses that Shuri insists he smells like.

“You want my dick, kitten?” Erik rasps in his ear, nipping at the soft flesh and thrusting his hips forward for emphasis. “That why you got your she-demons to tie me up and drag me here, hmm?”

“Yes,” T’Challa swallows and whispers back. There is no shame in admitting it, he thinks, but Erik rears back from him, something vulnerable crossing his features before he looks away, and T’Challa reaches out to cup his cheek.

“Do not hide from me, not here,” He murmurs, meeting Erik’s eyes.

“I hate you,” Erik throws at him, but they both know that it is just empty words by now, with no heart behind it, a fragile mask to protect the hurt soul inside.

“I know,” T’Challa says, pushing the soft fabric of Erik’s robes aside to reveal bare skin. He skims the pads of his fingers over the scars and feels the alpha’s heavy gaze watching him, “I cannot change the past, but I can influence the future so that little boys and girls like N’Jadaka will have a safe home to go back to.”

"You have no right to call me by that name," Erik snarls, muscles bunching and straining beneath his skin as he tears at the solid cuffs around his wrists. T’Challa does not shy away from the anger, and after a few silent seconds of struggle, he goes still again, breathing hard and glaring daggers at the king.

“You should have let me die,” He mutters bitterly.

“Unlike you, I am selfish,” T’Challa murmurs back.

“I see how it is,” Erik lets out a sharp laugh, and keeping his eyes locked with T’Challa’s, he drops down on the lavish couch, arms still bound behind his back and spreads his legs with a lewd sneer, “go on then, take what you want, little cat. Sit on my cock like the thirsty bitch you are.”

“Some times I forget how rude Americans are,” T’Challa sighs as he shrugs off his robes and gracefully straddles Erik’s hips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here's the second chapter. Time for me to crawl back into my swamp. See y'all lovely folks in a few years when it dries up due to fucking climate change. 
> 
> Enjoy.

Erik growls when T'Challa frees him from the confines of his pants and peers down at the alpha’s erect cock with infuriating calmness. He jerks his hips up aggressively and T’Challa's fingers tighten in his hair and pulls, baring the gleaming bite mark at his throat. It’s a power move, a warning. Erik’s pulse quickens. Catching T’Challa’s dark eyes, he deliberately thrusts against him, pleased when he feels the growing wetness between the king’s legs. T’Challa’s lips part in a soft gasp, eyes fluttering shut as he fumbles at his leggings with unsteady fingers.

When he reaches down to slip trembling digits into his own tight heat, Erik finds it suddenly hard to breath, spellbound as he watches T’Challa ready himself with brisk impatience. Then, without breaking eye contact, the king grabs his cock and sinks down in one smooth roll of his hips.

“Fuck!” He curses when the hot wet warmth surrounding him contracts violently. T’Challa freezes above him, the sudden orgasm taking him by surprise. The ensuing gush of warm slick from where they are connected makes Erik moan.

“That good, huh?” He laughs, head lulling back from the sensation.

T’Challa has gone limp against him, his soft panting breath tickling the hairs at the nape of Erik’s neck. Still trembling a little from the unexpected climax, T’Challa lifts himself up minutely and sits down again, sheathing Erik back inside his warm body with a sigh of pleasure. The pace is maddeningly slow, and Erik soon finds himself straining against the cuffs once more, impatient to fuck his omega properly, to make him squeal like the weak little cat he really is.

“Release me, kitten, so I can make you scream for it, come on. I know you want to,” He breathes in T’Challa’s ear, pleased when the omega shudders and stills atop him. T’Challa studies him for a long pause, calloused fingers tracing Erik’s cheekbones and jaw. He doesn’t know what the king is looking for, but when he leans down and brushes their lips together in a gentle, timid kiss, the cuffs around Erik’s wrists separate.

He’s on his feet in an instant, one arm cradling T’Challa’s ass and the other cupping his neck as he slams the omega against the closest wall and begins to thrust in earnest. T’Challa muffles the shocked gasp against Erik’s lips, but his legs tighten involuntarily around his waist, arms coming up to wrap around the alpha’s neck.

He fucks the second orgasm out of the king in a matter of minutes. T’Challa sobs as his body seizes up, back arching and scrambling frantically to get away from the brutal assault on his oversensitive body, but Erik drags him back by the hips and forces him to take it. T’Challa’s head snaps back against the wall, his release glistening pearly white between their bodies as he shudders through the climax.

Erik frowns when he pulls out, jerking a hand over his dick and noticing the distinct lack of a forming knot. He hasn’t come yet, but usually by now, the base would’ve swelled up a bit, unless…

“You on some kind of suppressant?” He asks T’Challa, who is still draped limply against him, satisfaction and relief radiating from every pore.

“Hmm,” T’Challa nuzzles the side of his neck.

No actual heat means no knot, and low chances of pregnancy. T’Challa’s usually on birth control anyway, so he’s not really worried about not using protection.

Erik shrugs, “you wanna take this somewhere else, kitten?”

“Bed’s upstairs,” T’Challa slurs, still wrapped around him like a clingy animal. Rolling his eyes and muttering about spoiled royal bastards, Erik lifts him up and carries the omega up the grand staircase. He follows the soft traces of T’Challa’s scent and finds the king’s bedroom without much trouble.

His chest tightens at the sight of the royal rings lying on the bedside table. T’Challa had taken his father’s ring that day when they fought, ripped the only reminder Erik had left of his father, just like he took everything else. He had slipped his own ring onto Erik’s chain, allowing the two identical vibranium bands to touch. Anger rises, breaking through the foggy haze of arousal as he sets T’Challa down on the soft luxurious sheets and stares down at his relaxed form.

The little prince who had everything growing up, and him, abandoned like his father’s corpse, left to rot in secret.

Erik finds that he cannot bear to look at T’Challa’s face anymore, not with those wide child-like eyes looking back at him. Innocent, loved and untouched by sorrow. Those were qualities he himself would have had, if T’Chaka had not ripped everything away. Now Erik no longer has any room in his heart for soft sentiments, all that's left is anger, unending and all-consuming.

Erik shoves the omega onto his knees, grabs T’Challa’s hips roughly and rubs his dick against his wet hole. Keeping his eyes on the two gleaming bands on the dresser, he thrusts in roughly, smirking at T’Challa’s choked cry. He sets a brutal pace, the obscenely loud wet sound of their coupling echoing in the silence of the king's bedroom.

 _You thought you could bury me like my old man, didn’t you?_ He thinks, hips moving savagely and reveling at T’Challa’s muffled gasps of pleasure. The crotch of his pants is soaked through with T’Challa’s slick.

Well _guess what, you couldn’t, you useless old fuck. I’m back, and I got your boy writhing under me like a bitch in heat. He’s mine now, uncle._

Erik pulls T’Challa’s head back, “scream for me, cuz.”

The young king stiffens beneath him, eyes widening when he catches sight of the rings as well. Erik can see the shame and desire clashing in his face as he flips the omega over onto his back, lifts his open thighs and feeds his cock slowly back into that welcoming heat. T’Challa’s mouth parts, eyes fluttering shut. Erik sees the tear tracks gleaming at his temple, and with a wide vicious smirk, he leans down and licks the salty moisture away with deliberate slowness.

“What would T’Chaka think of his precious golden son now, hmm? Getting off on screwing his own flesh and blood,” Erik growls tauntingly in his ear, “begging to be bred full of cubs.”

“No…” T’Challa sobs, but his body is honest, clenching down around Erik’s cock and grinding back against him.

“Say it, say that you love my dick, T’Challa," He whispers, sinking his teeth into the claiming mark at the base of T’Challa’s neck, and groaning in surprise when his soft omega scent suddenly intensifies and that familiar itch to knot and breed the fertile thing under him surfaces in Erik’s brain.

Had he somehow fucked T’Challa into a proper heat?

Erik can feel the base of his dick start to swell with each deep thrust, catching briefly every time he screws into the body beneath.

“Say it,” He growls, “or I’ll knot you and pump you full of my seed, cuz. You don’t want that, do you? An illegitimate heir to the throne. What would the queen think of her precious baby boy, hmm?”

Erik does not expect to see the flash of anger in T’Challa’s eyes, and the swinging punch coming out of nowhere takes him by surprise as T’Challa flips their position and activates the cuffs again. Erik’s wrists slam into the headboard, some form of magnetic seal holding them securely in place. Then, keeping his eyes locked on the enraged alpha’s face, T'Challa deliberately sinks down on his cock again, taking him to the root, knot and all.

Erik curses under his breath, panting hard. It’s hot, he has to admit that.

“I have shown you the utmost courtesy, and you throw it all back in my face, N'Jadaka. My patience is not without its limits,” T’Challa says, the soft vulnerable omega replaced by the fierce King of Wakanda.

“You ask me if I like your cock,” T’Challa grabs him by the jaw, hips rolling smoothly as he rides Erik at his own pace, “I do, otherwise you would not be here.”

“Fuck,” Erik laughs, impressed, “alright, pretty boy. And here I thought you were incapable of being angry, oh wise and great leader."

“Shut up,” T’Challa rolls his eyes and silences him with a rough kiss. Erik chuckles through the assault on his mouth, the laughter morphing into a moan when the omega speeds up in his lap.

“Get up, shit, I’m gonna—" He starts, but T’Challa presses a palm over his mouth and ignores the warning, his face set in an expression of mulish determination.

“Are you on birth-contro—" Erik tries to speak again, but it’s to no avail. T’Challa fist a handful of his dreads, yanks his head to the side and sinks sharp teeth into the mating mark and Erik is gone, blowing off like a rocket, hips twisting up involuntarily and grinding his release deep into T’Challa’s tight passage.

The knot swells rapidly and T’Challa sighs against his lips, settling his weight fully into Erik’s lap, his inner walls milking the alpha’s cock for all its worth. He stretches languidly, corded muscles flexing beneath smooth ebony skin and smiles like a very sated feline.

“You’re crazy, cuz,” Erik rasps, peering up at T’Challa with curious eyes.

T’Challa raises his eyebrow, and it’s so condescending that it almost feels like Erik's back in fourth grade, being scolded by his homeroom teacher for peeking up a girl's skirt.

T'Challa reaches over and grabs the rings, and under Erik’s gaze, he takes one of them and slips it onto Erik’s finger.

“This one isn’t mine,” The alpha points out.

“I know,” T’Challa says evenly, slipping Erik’s father’s ring onto his own finger. “Until you are ready, I will hold onto Uncle’s ring.”

“Why?” Erik asks him, rubbing at his irritated wrists when T’Challa releases them again. He has nowhere to go, not while he’s knotted deep inside his omega, so Erik settles for placing his hands at T’Challa’s hips, which seems to please the king.

T’Challa doesn’t reply. Instead, he arranges himself comfortable over Erik’s lap and closes his eyes.

“Stop talking, I need a bit of rest, then I will have you again,” He decides, eyes fluttering shut.

Erik frowns and asks again, “you are on birth-control, right? Cause I’m not ready to be a daddy, and neither are you."

Unsurprisingly, T’Challa ignores him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what, there's more. Have another chapter, my thirsty babies.

Killmonger is lounging in his boxers and an oversized t-shirt when Shuri finds him in his confinement cell, the huge HD screen in front of him on some first-person shooter game with a whole bunch of flashing lights. No doubt it’s another attempt from his brother to befriend their sociopath of a cousin, not that he needs to what with their side activities.

Shuri had seen the infuriating smirk on Killmonger’s face two days after T’Challa had come to her for the emergency suppressants. He had smelled so strongly of her brother that she picked up the scent all the way across the hall. The Dora Milaje escorting him back to his cell hadn’t looked pleased, and when Shuri asked T’Challa about it, her brother had blushed bright red and refused to speak a word.

“What do you want, Princess?” Killmonger asks without bothering to turn around.

“I need to talk to you,” Shuri turns off the TV with a flick of her wrist, leaving them in silence. Killmonger tosses the controller aside and stands slowly.

“I was playing that,” He says flatly.

“This is serious,” Shuri swallows and tries not to let her voice shake. Part of her is sure he can see how fast her pulse is. Killmonger narrows his eyes and cocks his head to the side, then the next second, he jumps over the white leather couch and shoves her against the vibranium-enforced glass wall, his forearm at her windpipe and effectively knocking the breath out of her lungs.

“I’m listening, little girl,” He leans in close and smirks, “speak.”

Shuri scrabbles uselessly at his face and neck with her fingers, trying to draw in air through her abused throat. This close, she sees that his eyes are a light golden amber, like the bright vibrant pelt of a cheetah under the hot African sun. Then, Killmonger releases her and bounces back onto the balls of his feet.

“Relax, Princess, just tryin' to keep you on your toes,” He says, still grinning as he holds up his hands, palms facing Shuri in a mockingly innocent gesture of peace.

Shuri coughs and massages her neck. Aiming a vicious glare at her brother’s alpha, she rasps, “I need your help and you’re going to give it to me.”

“And why’s that?” He asks, folding his arms over his chest.

“Because,” It’s time for her to smirk when he winces at the sudden prick of pain in the side of his neck where she'd placed the tracker during their little scuffle, “if you don’t, that little thing is going to send some very painful volts of electricity through your body. Wanna try it out, big boy?”

“Not bad,” He eyes her almost appraisingly, “alright, I’ll bite. What do you want?”

Heart still pounding, Shuri takes a deepsteadying breath and says, “I need you to help me rescue my brother. His trip to London was compromised and a terrorist group took T’Challa hostage.”

“Where were the pack of she-wolves when they took him?” Killmonger asks.

“Seriously injured in the explosion,” Shuri says, hating herself for coming to him, but she has no other choice, not when half of the Dora Milaje are still bedridden. “It’s been almost 36 hours since the abduction. I can’t just sit here and do nothing while they torture my brother. I know I can find him!”

“He’s still got the Panther Habit, he’s gonna be fine,” Killmonger waves away her concern with a careless hand. He pulls his shirt collar to reveal the set of bite marks at his throat and drawls, “'sides, if he’s dead, I’d know, Princess.”

“You are such a heartless bastard, Killmonger,” Shuri’s voice cracks as tears of anger and frustration burn in her eyes. She blinks furiously, trying her best to keep the tears at bay, but it’s too late. They trail down her cheeks as she starts to sob, shoulders heaving as the worry and stress she’s been suppressing until now spills over into embarassingly loud and messy gasps.

Heaving an irritated sigh, Killmonger runs a hand over his dreads and says, “Alright, alright, calm the fuck down, I’ll do it. You already ruined my Call of Duty mission anyway.”

 

* * *

 

Shuri’s still a bit red around the eyes when she sneaks him into her lab.

“Do not touch anything,” She smacks his hand away when Killmonger reaches for a newly designed vibranium blade model on one of the tables. “I need to get you some protective armor.”

“What happened to my old one? I liked it,” He says as he follows her deeper into her sanctuary. His gaze lands on the golden panther habit lying around the neck of one of the test mannequins and lifts it off.

“There’s a chink in it I can’t seem to fix after T’Challa—“ Shuri stops speaking and turns around when he activates the vibranium suit.

“After my bitch stabbed me in the chest with a fucking spear? Yeah, I seem to recall that, too,” He peers down at the sliver of scarred skin showing beneath the impenetrable suit. The blade and the vibrations from the mines had permanently altered the composition so that the suit would not fully form over his chest.

“I’m still trying to reverse that,” Shuri says, choosing to ignore his crass language. “Here, use this one. It’s whole.” She pats the arm of a nearby mannequin.

“What the fuck is this?” He wanders over and pulls off the helmet.

“My brother’s design,” Shuri answers distractedly as she gathers the equipment they will need for the rescue mission.

“Well he ain’t winnin’ any awards any time soon, I’ll tell ya that,” Killmonger snorts, tossing the clunky helmet into the air like a football, “a fucking helmet. Dude off to ride a motorcycle or what?”

“That’s what I said!” Shuri can’t help blurt out. She catches herself a second too late, but the alpha’s too busy making fun of her brother’s childish designs to notice her slip.

“Nah, I’ll pass. This damaged one’ll do the trick. ‘Sides,” Killmonger bares his teeth, “I like a bit of danger.”

 

* * *

 

“Will you stop it?”

“Stop what?”

“That annoying game you’re playing on your primitive phone,” Shuri grinds out between her teeth.

“And make small-talk to you? No thanks. Also, I happen to like my StarkPhone,” He puts the emphasis on the name, smirking when she growls and accelerates their ship. Erik deliberately throws his leg up over the arm rest and turns up the volume.

“I honestly don’t see what T'Challa sees in you,” She says, shooting him a nasty look.

“That’s ‘cause you haven’t seen me with my pants down, Princess,” Erik replies breezily, not taking his eyes off the brightly colored game.

“You’re disgusting.” She glares.

“Oh, you think that’s disgusting? Guess what, your big stoic brother’s a screamer in bed,” Erik takes vindictive pleasure in her shudder. He dodges half-heartedly when Shuri reaches over and smacks him.

He leers at her, “I can tell you more. He loves it when I fuck him against the—"

“SHUT UP! Just go over there and play your stupid game, goddamn it!” Shuri finally screams. Erik gives her a sarcastic salute and wanders over to the back of the craft to sprawl gracelessly in one of the seats.

There’s silence between them for the rest of the ride, but as they cloak their ship and start the descend, Shuri asks tentatively, "Did you know who he was when you bit him?"

Erik punches the button to the cargo bay a few thousand feet above the drop zone. The cool night wind whips at his hair as he activates the panther habit.

"I don't know, Princess,” He smirks over his shoulder, "you tell me.”

Then, without waiting for her reply, he jumps from the ship.

 

* * *

 

There’s an extravagant party going on in the building where Shuri had detected T’Challa’s signal, some sort of auction/fund-raiser with men and women dressed to the nines and sipping from snooty champagne glasses.

Erik drops smoothly down onto one of the empty balconies, “What is it with white folks and the need to flaunt their money? Don’t they know that’s how it gets stolen? This is textbook definition of ‘celebrating too fucking early.’ Hey, we should carve that into their headstones, ‘Here Lies XX. Celebrated Too Early.’”

“Pay attention and stop talking,” Shuri orders on her end, “the longer we stay, the more likely we get discovered. Locate T’Challa and get him out of here. Don’t kill anyone, ok?”

“Don’t think that’s possible, Princess,” Erik mutters back, silently scanning the crowd from a nearby window, “I see a few ex-military and trained intelligence agents pretending to blend in.”

“How can you tell?” She asks.

“They try too hard,” He flexes his fist and grins when the sharp vibranium claws extend from the tips of his fingers, glowing a molten gold even under the cold light of the moon.

 

* * *

 

The only strenuous exercise Erik’s done in the past few weeks is fucking T'Challa, but he's still in top shape. All the past training resurfaces effortlessly and he cuts through the resistance in minutes. Blood sings in his veins. It’s intoxicating, the power and control he has over them.

He pins one of the suited men against the wall, not bothering to check his strength. The plaster dents beneath the man’s head as bullets ricochet uselessly against the back of Erik's vibranium suit.

“Tell me where you’re holding the Wakandan,” Erik growls.

The man spits in his face.

He smiles, shark-like, “I was hoping you’d do that.”

 

* * *

 

“Don’t look,” He warns when Shuri skids into the room.

“Too late,” She gags, looking horrified as she scrambles over to help him untie T’Challa, “what did you do to them?”

“What I was taught to do in the army,” Erik replies calmly, pulling the rest of the restraints off the king. He stands and looks around. “This is pretty tame compared to what my team did in Iraq, Princess.”

“They had stolen tech from Wakanda. It would appear that the smuggling ring goes deeper than I initially suspected,” T’Challa makes a pained noise and gets to his feet slowly with Shuri’s aid. “They wanted to use me as a bargain for vibranium. I lost the Habit, Shuri…”

“Don’t worry, I tracked it down,” She says and slips it back over his neck as Erik sneers, “You’re weak, if it were me, I’d have killed every last one of ‘em, set their corpses on fire, and still have time to finish that Call of Duty mission, cuz.”

“Will you let that go?” Shuri rolls her eyes. “Get us out of here and you can go back to your stupid video game, nerd.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m fine, Shuri,” T’Challa repeats for the fifth time when Shuri leans over her pilot seat to ask, her face scrunched with worry. He’s sitting a few feet from Erik, who has gone back to playing Candy Crush on his phone, both legs thrown over the seat next to him. Erik can feel the omega’s eyes on him, and it’s annoying the hell out of him, but he’s determined to not let it show. Whatever T’Challa’s trying to do, he’s not biting.

Then, Erik notices the smell, soft and alluring with a hint of rose.

“Do you mind?” He mutters, annoyed as he pauses the game long enough to send T’Challa a glare.

“My apologies,” T’Challa murmurs, lowering his gaze demurely as he gets to his feet and brushes past. His fingers skim the exposed skin along Erik’s arm on his way, and it’s such a blatant invitation that the alpha freezes, caught off guard.

“Your sister’s right there, bro,” Erik pitches his voice low, but he tosses his phone aside and grins when T’Challa ignores his words and heads off to the back of the ship where the bathroom is located.

“Jesus,” Erik exhales and stands. Making sure the young girl is still preoccupied with the controls of the ship, he turns to follow T’Challa.

 

* * *

 

“Seriously, you wanna fuck in here?” Erik asks as soon as the metal doors seal shut behind them. The space is tiny compared to the rest of the ship, but the furnishing is equally high-tech and fancy.

“Why did you come to my aid today?” T’Challa asks instead.

“Oh, you wanted to talk,” He’s not disappointed per say, but the alternative would have been more fun. “In that case, I’m out.”

T’Challa slaps his hand away when Erik reaches for the door.

“What is it with you guys and slapping me?” He glares at the omega, starting to feel his patience crumble at the edges.

"Why did you come, Erik?” T'Challa repeats the question. Erik doesn't want to meet his eyes, doesn't want to see the glimmer of whatever it is in those serene brown orbs.

"Cause I'm the one who's gonna kill you in the end," he bares his teeth and goes for intimidation instead. It's a familiar mask, but the effect seems lost on T'Challa, who smiles a little too fondly for the alpha's liking. Erik growls and jerks his collar aside to show him the implant, "also your shitty little sister put this in my neck."

"That is just a harmless communicator," T'Challa frowns before delivering a quick stinging slap to Erik's jaw, "do not call her that."

"That little manipulative bi-" He clenches his teeth when T'Challa's eyes narrow and swallows the rest of the insult along with whatever's left of his tattered dignity.

"So you can learn," T'Challa's mouth twitches, amusement coloring his quiet words as he runs an apologetic thumb over Erik’s lower lip, and the bathroom suddenly feels too small for the both of them. The omega's soft enticing scent is invading all of his senses. He takes a step back, wanting a little space between them to clear his head, but T'Challa follows, ever so relentless in his attempts to get under Erik’s skin.

And then they're kissing.

Erik's mind blanks for a second or two before he starts to register the sensation of T'Challa's slightly chapped lips against his, soft fingers settling against the side of his neck. The king sighs gently when Erik's arms automatically wrap around his waist. It's weird as hell, being intimate with T’Challa without the madness of heat between them. His head is too clear, and there’s too much to think about—

T’Challa grabs him by the crotch, and Erik groans, all tangible thought flying out the window as he lifts T’Challa up by the ass and crowds him against the shiny washbasin countertop. He rolls his hips and feels T’Challa shudder, a small gasp escaping between their frantic kisses. Erik pulls back to yank his shirt off, tosses it carelessly over his shoulder, and fumbles the buttons to his jeans, cursing under his breath when the button refuses to open. T’Challa makes an impatient noise and before Erik can stop him, activates the suit and tears through the material with a clawed hand, sending his mangled jeans sliding to pool around his ankles.

“Whoa, what did I say about 'em kitty claws near my man bits?” Erik grabs his wrist and squeezes in warning.

“In me, now,” T’Challa fists a hand in the deactivated golden habit necklace around Erik’s throat and yanks him forward forcefully.

“Fuck,” Erik hisses under his breath when he reaches down between the omega’s legs and feels the wetness there. He slips three fingers up to the knuckle effortlessly and T’Challa sighs, arms coming to settle around his neck.

“I’mma eat out that sweet pussy when we get back,” He smirks and draws out his fingers to lap at the slick running down his wrist.

“Don’t be vulgar,” T’Challa scolds with a frown. Erik laughs, spreads him open and fucks inside that wet warmth. T’Challa’s eyes flutter shut on a shaky exhale and Erik slaps a hand over his exposed ass, grinning when the omega tightens around him in surprise. T’Challa drags him into a punishing kiss, sharp canines nipping at the soft flesh of Erik’s lower lip, but the small bursts of pain only heightens the pleasure. He pins T’Challa against the wall, grabs two fistful of that pert ass and begins to thrust for real. The king is making small aborted gasps against Erik's neck, his entire body shaking with the effort to keep silent.

“You think your sister can hear us, hmm?” Erik breathes in his ear, “I did tell her you were a screamer.”

T’Challa shakes his head helplessly, one fist pressed tightly against his mouth. His cheeks are flushed a dull red and pupils blown wide. Erik smirks and pulls out, manhandling the dazed omega over to the mirror. “Look at you, babe, look at how pretty you are when you take cock.”

He catches T’Challa’s eyes in the mirror and slowly slides back in. They both sigh at the sensation, and T’Challa lays his hand over the arm Erik has wrapped around his midriff. It suddenly feels a lot more intimate than Erik likes, even more intimate than the kisses they’ve already shared. He’s never kissed a one-night stand before, not even when he'd been going steady with Linda. It’s always been the no-strings attached policy with him. He’d been good at it until he met T’Challa.

The matching mating marks at their throats are visible in the mirror's reflection, and Erik can’t help himself when he leans down to press a hard kiss to the set of crescent scars at T’Challa’s collar. T’Challa threads their fingers together, the rings clicking against each other. He clamps a hand tightly over T’Challa’s mouth when they come, afraid of what might slip from between those lips.

Erik knows if he hears them out loud, they will strip away the last few pieces of his armor and expose the bleeding mess inside. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to survive without his hatred for T’Challa and his family.

“I—” He kisses the words from T’Challa’s mouth when the omega tries again, swallows them down to fester inside his chest with the rest of the kindness and innocence he’s buried every since his father’s death. Erik doesn’t need it, doesn’t want it.

T’Challa sighs when they break apart. He cups Erik’s cheeks and presses their foreheads together.

"Don't," Erik says.

“Ok,” T'Challa whispers back.

Erik closes his eyes and lets T'Challa hold him for a little while longer, their heartbeats almost in sync in the soft silence. Then something hisses overhead and they both jump as Shuri’s voice, magnified by the intercom, says, “you two are disgusting and depraved, and should be ashamed of yourselves. I’m burning this ship when we get back, just so you know, Brother. Shame, shame, shame.”

They freeze. Erik’s still going soft inside T’Challa. He doesn’t know who laughs first, but they’re both giggling like idiots when Shuri starts her angry rant about being emotionally scarred for the rest of her beautiful life over the intercom again.

“You tore through my pants, cuz, what the fuck am I supposed to wear?” Erik mutters when they finish cleaning themselves up and turn to inspect the war zone. T’Challa’s mouth twitches as he runs his eyes down the alpha’s form appreciatively.

“You’re a resourceful man, I’m sure you will think of something,” He slips out of the bathroom before Erik can stop him.

 

* * *

 

“What happened to your pants?” Shuri hisses at him when they deboard the ship after T’Challa who is immediately crushed into Ramonda’s arms. Erik’s got a jacket wrapped tightly around his waist to keep the ruined jeans from slipping off his hips.

“Thought you said you were scarred enough as it is, lil' sis,” He shoots back, keeping his hands strategically over his crotch so the passersby can’t see the claw marks in the denim.

“You two are like rabbits, but minus the cuteness factor," She groans, making a face. Shuri quickly straightens when T’Challa makes his way back to her, his steps light and amusement shining in his dark eyes when he sees Erik’s makeshift belt.

“I must visit the injured Dora. Will you accompany me, sister?” He asks.

“Sure, but what are we going to do with him?” Shuri frowns, “also, tell me how much trouble I’m in with Mother.” She tries to smile at Ramonda who lifts an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest. Shuri’s shoulders slump, “I am in so much trouble for letting him loose.”

“You gonna put me back in the box, kitten?” Erik eyes T’Challa challengingly.

“I don’t think so,” T’Challa surprises them both by saying thoughtfully, “you’ve proven today that I don’t need bonds to tether you to me, N’Jadaka.” He lifts his hand and presses light fingers against Erik’s chest, “at least not physical ones.”

“Ok, we’re done here, I have had it with this creepy flirting between you two,” Shuri interrupts and hauls her smiling brother away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Lord, this just keeps getting bigger. I blame my enabler JJ. 
> 
> I debated with her whether I should even mention mpreg (It will NOT be graphic, good God, when I was shadowing my first OBG I actually got nauseous). I mean, obviously, there's the cousin element, and ironically, we're actually both Genetics Ph.D. students, so you really don't have to leave me any hate comments about the incest. Believe me, I know about genes and how they work. For the sake of my conscience, let's just say Wakanda tech is advanced enough. Also, let's not go down that rabbit hole. 
> 
> So yeah, she encouraged me to do a bit more world-building + write a proper ending, and this happened. Sorry about lying and saying there's only one chapter left. There's actually 3.

“I refuse,” T’Challa says firmly.

Various members of the Council of Elders are giving him disapproving looks, but T’Challa ignores them in favor of calmly loosening the top three buttons of his tunic and lifting aside his collar to show the set of marks imprinted into his skin.

“I am already mated,” He points out evenly.

“To an outsider who tried to usurp your throne, and in America,” Nakia’s father points out, “your joining was never approved by the Elders.”

Ramonda puts a hand on his shoulder in silent warning. T’Challa clenches his fists at his sides and tries to keep the impatience out of his voice as he asks, “and how would it become approved?”

“By ritual combat,” The Elder of the Mining Tribe answers, “and beating all the other chosen alphas from the four tribes.”

“Then I will inform him of that,” T’Challa says icily, “I suspect N’Jadaka will not have a problem with that.”

“No, but there is the issue of eligibility,” One of the old crones smiles slyly, “only a head member of a tribe can nominate a champion. As you are the prize in question, you will not have a say in this, my king.”

T’Challa feels unease rise within him.

“What say you, Ramonda?” The River Tribe Elder calls out, “who will you put forth to fight for your son’s honor?”

“Mother, no,” He turns to her, hoping against hope, but Ramonda avoids his gaze as she announces, loud and crystal-clear.

“M’Baku.”

 

* * *

 

_“What?!”_

M’Baku chokes on his drink and dissolves into a violent coughing fit when he hears the news. T’Challa folds his arms over his chest and waits patiently as the Leader of the Jabari Tribe wheezes and clutches at his throat, his face rapidly turning a dark purplish red.

“Should we help him?” Shuri asks worriedly.

“Let us wait, maybe he will choke to death and the problem will solve itself,” T’Challa says cooly. Shuri eyes him with trepidation. Her brother has always been extremely well-mannered outside of their private lives and it surprises her to hear the sharp words slip from his lips.

“But I d-don’t...even want y-you…” M’Baku finally manages to say after he stops hacking up a lung.

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual,” T’Challa says.

“So, I refuse her then,” He says, smacking a fist the size of Shuri’s head into the arm of his throne. "Problem solved!"

“I do not think my mother will take kindly to that,” T’Challa pinches the bridge of his nose, “and besides, if you refuse, there are countless others who are looking to fill the spot. I only wish I could fight them myself.”

“What happened to the one you were sleeping with?” M’Baku asks curiously, “you know, the one that almost killed you.”

“The Elders say he does not qualify. They just want to secure an heir with allegiances to their tribe as soon as possible, what with Shuri’s refusal to take over if I somehow meet my demise,” T’Challa frowns. “I have half the mind to get rid of the Council and their antiquated ways.”

“Mother would die of shock,” Shuri says with a twist of her lips, “remember her reaction when I said I wanted to go to university in America? You’d think I was off to sacrifice myself in the third World War or something, judging by the volume of her howls.”

“So, what’s the plan then?” M’Baku leans forward, “I happen to like my life the way it is. Also, I’m sure that crazy alpha of yours would find me and skin me alive.”

T’Challa’s mouth lifts little at that, his expression fond.

“Here is what we are going to do.”

 

* * *

 

"Do you think it will work, Brother?" Shuri studies T'Challa's frowning profile as their ship glides smoothly out of the icy mountains the Jabari call home.

"M'Baku has proven to be reliable on the battlefield as it would seem," T'Challa answers. He looks tired, Shuri thinks, already suffering under the weight of the crown. Sympathy turns to alarm when her brother sways on his feet, one hand going to his mouth. She abandons the controls and rushes to his side.

“I am fine, Shuri,” He dismisses the concern and straightens his spine, stubbornly refusing to sit when she tries to persuade him. “I have a visit to the Merchant Tribe this afternoon that I cannot miss.”

“You are going to work yourself to death, Brother,” She admonishes and lays her palm over his forehead. He doesn’t feel feverish, which is a relief, but Shuri still can’t shake the nagging feeling of upset.

“It is nothing more than a stomach bug.”

The indifferent words from her brother knocks the air out of Shuri’s lungs like a physical punch. The first thing that comes to mind is both too awful and exhilaration to contemplate, so she takes a deep breath and asks casually, “you’ve been feeling nauseous?”

T’Challa nods, his mind already wandering over to the next thing on his to-do-list. She follows him over to the controls, heart at her throat, “how long?”

“Three days,” He brother pauses in his inspection to peer at her, “what’s wrong, Shuri? Do you think it is more serious? I do not feel particularly ill, but if you think it might be contagious, I should be quarantined right away when we get back.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think it’s contagious, it’s just, the Heart-Shaped Herb is supposed to guard against common ailments, so…” It is the truth. She has found over the years that the best lies are often liberally sprinkled with little truths.

“You want to take my blood and study the superbug,” T’Challa finishes for her, a fond smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. It is a familiar exchange between them. Over the years, Shuri has often used him as one of her unfortunate test subjects.

“That would be the plan,” She laughs nervously and when T’Challa offers her his bare wrist, she makes sure to be extra gentle with him when extracting the sample.

 

* * *

 

The results confirm her guess. She runs it three more times just to be sure, but by the time Shuri runs out of blood, nothing has changed. She almost drops the empty vial with the way her hands are trembling. Shuri feels like she is about to vibrate out of her skin. She skids over to the mirror mounted on the wall at one of the empty workstations and peers into it with shining eyes. Her cheeks are flushed with color and she cannot for the life of her stop smiling.

“Auntie Shuri,” The young beta girl whispers to her reflection in the silence, “I like the sound of that.”

Then her smile falters a bit when she remembers who the other parent is.

“Maybe he will drop dead in shock, and Brother and I can raise the baby,” She murmurs to herself, mind already racing ahead. T’Challa’s plan with M’Baku is not infallible. After all, T’Challa had beaten him once, and the only one who has ever beaten T’Challa is Killmonger. By pure probability and predicted performance, Killmonger is the best candidate, but according to the Council rules, he’s not qualified to participate.

So she needs to find a way to get him in.

Groaning, Shuri mutters to the flashing results on the monitor, “your parents owe me so much, kid.”

 

* * *

 

“What are you doing up in that tree?” W’Kabi asks as he squints up at Erik, one hand lifted to shield the worst of the glaring sun.

“Just chillin’,” comes the nonchalant reply. He’s sprawled on the thick branch like a resting cheetah, one long leg swinging gently to and fro in the warm summer breeze.

W’Kabi looks at the white rhinos standing intently a few yards away and sighs, “they chased you up there, didn’t they? I told you not to mess with them, N’Jadaka.”

There’s no reply. W’Kabi doesn’t expect there to be one. The young alpha is as bullheaded as he is strong. W’Kabi walks over to the offended animals and slips each of them a small treat and a consolidating pat on the head.

“He is sadly off-limits, my sweets,” He murmurs to the rhinos, “our King would not be pleased to find his lover trampled to death.” Then, turning to the alpha in the tree, he shouts, “you can get down now, it is safe. My children are quick to forgive.”

Erik jumps gracefully from the branch and lands soundlessly in the grass. He eyes the rhinos and says, “so did you two bone and make these, ‘cause they got her temper, that’s for sure.”

One of the rhinos makes an angry snorting sound and paws the ground. W’Kabi puts a gentle hand over its head and shushes it before turning to Erik, “are you actively trying to get yourself killed? If it is attention that you are after, why not just go seek it from T’Challa now that he has given you free access to roam around Wakanda? I am sure he would welcome your antics.”

“You wound me, bro,” Erik feigns hurt by clutching at his chest, “and here I thought you liked me.”

“I do,” W’Kabi says simply, “but my beloved does not.”

“Man, her face when I showed up,” He smirks at the memory.

“Yes, I know. I was there,” W’Kabi reminds.

“She still thinks I seduced you to revolt against T’Challa with my wild sexual magnetism?” The young alpha flings an arm around W’Kabi’s shoulder. Before he can answer, a dagger whooshes past them and slams into the trunk of the tree with a solid thunk.

“Step away from my omega, traitor, or the next one goes in your head,” Okoye growls, jumping out of the still moving ship that had appeared silently over the horizon without them noticing.

“Damn, what do you see in that?” Erik mutters, gesturing at the furious female alpha stalking toward them with murder in her eyes.

W’Kabi untangles himself from Erik’s arm and moves to sooth his mate. “Beloved, there is no need for violence.”

“He touches you again, I break every bone in that arm,” Okoye snarls, and proceeds to scent him in front of Erik who just smirks and shrugs. He turns his attention to the young girl who follows Okoye out of the aircraft, "missed me, Princess?"

"Not really," She replies, rolling her eyes, “but I do have to speak to you. Alone.”

Erik lifts a brow, “let me guess, big brother got kidnapped again.”

“Very funny,” Shuri strides past him, “come.”

“Or what?” Erik asks lazily, standing his ground.

She gives him an odd look as she sidles close, grabs him forcefully by the wrist and hisses low in his ear, “or else you’re going to lose your spot in T’Challa’s bed, idiot.”

 

* * *

 

The day of the contest dawns bright and early, much to Shuri's distaste. Her brother had initially refused to wear the traditional white ceremonial robes paired with the heavy golden bands Ramonda had provided, but their mother had been…persistent.

“I am suffocating under these,” He hisses at Shuri when she appears at his elbow.

“Want to trade me for my corset? I feel like I’m being swallowed by a python,” She snaps back with equal impatience. They exchange a sympathetic look behind Ramonda’s back.

“Are you feeling better?” She asks.

“Yes, no one else has caught it, which is a relief,” He murmurs.

Shuri’s face does a funny little twitch, “yeah, about that—”

Ramonda pulls T’Challa's attention away before she can finish her sentence. His expression is impassive as each tribe call forth their champions. M’Baku is easily the tallest of the lot. Shuri catches his eye behind the ape mask and shoots him a double thumbs-up.

T’Challa’s plan was simple. M’Baku would beat the other alphas, and when it was time for him to accept his prize, he would decline and Ramonda’s words would not hold any power over him, not when the Jabari refused to acknowledge Wakandan leadership.

Except, things do not go exactly as planned.

“Who is that?” T’Challa whispers urgently at her when the alpha beneath the jade green snake mask nearly takes M’Baku’s head off with a deadly club-swing. They are the only two left standing, and the members of the River tribe are chanting his name along with the beat of the drums.

“I don’t know. Does Nakia have a brother?” Shuri whispers back. She has been nervously gnawing at the beads braided into her hair for the past five minutes.

“I should be down there myself,” T’Challa says impatiently, “this is ridiculous.”

“Yeah, you don’t want to do that, not with your pregnancy,” Shuri mutters back distractedly. She cups her hands around her mouth and boos loudly when the other alpha manages to land a blow that sends M’Baku stumbling in the water.

“What do you mean ‘pregnancy’?” T’Challa whirls to face her just as they hear a sharp crack from below and an uproarious cheer from opposite the waterfall.

“Oh, shit,” Shuri covers her mouth and groans. She hadn’t meant to let it slip out like this, but the secret has been bouncing around in her head for the past 48 hours. Down below, M’Baku throws away his broken staff with a grimace and slowly stands. Ramonda makes a grievous sound at their side. T’Challa is still frozen to the spot, his dark brown eyes wide with shock.

“Any more contenders?” The priestess presiding over the contest calls out. The alpha from the River Tribe crosses his forearms over his chest and inclines his head toward T’Challa.

“Well, here goes nothing,” Shuri takes a deep breath and yells, “Me!”

The word send a ripple of incredulous laughter through the crowd.

“Princess, last I recall, you are not an alpha,” Nakia’s father laughs.

“No, but as a member of the royal family, I have the right to put forth my own champion,” She points out, and to her immense satisfaction, his smile fades at her words. “Yeah, that’s right. I read the rules.”

“Very well, who is your champion, Princess Shuri?” The priestess asks.

Shuri puts fingers to her lips and blasts off a shrill whistle.

The alpha that emerges from the darkness beyond the cave is wearing a gleaming jaguar pelt and mask. Next to her, T’Challa draws in a sharp breath, his long fingers wrapping around Shuri’s wrist in an iron grip when he spots the familiar scars running down the man’s arms.

“Is that—”

“I figured he deserves a fighting chance,” She covers T’Challa's hand and squeezes back fiercely. “Don’t say I never did anything nice for you, brother.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We decided to make their baby a girl! 
> 
> Genetically speaking, both their X chromosomes are from their mothers' sides (distantly related), so the odds of getting a rare genetic combination are relatively low. Also, boys are more prone to recessive mutations on the X chromosome because the Y chromosome is so short. Haha, don't know why I'm explaining this for a fictional work. Sorry for being such a nerd.

Erik has chosen blades eerily similar to the pair he’d used that day against T’Challa. The sight of the gleaming vibranium sends a shiver of dread down T’Challa’s spine, and it becomes quickly apparent that despite the other alpha’s skills, he is no match against Erik. Where there is a certain flare of dancing grace in the Wakandan fighting style, Erik strikes without hesitation, each strategic blow placed with the singular goal of obliterating his opponent. Even now, T’Challa has doubts whether he himself would be able to best Erik again if it ever came down to it.

The confrontation is short and brutal, the way Killimonger has trained to fight in the military. The crowd drawls in a collective breath when Erik’s knee smashes into the other man’s mask. He stumbles, rolls off to the side and barely avoids the ensuing blade that cracks the stone beneath cleanly in two. Erik flings his opponent’s clubs down the roaring waterfall, grabs the fallen alpha by the throat and starts to drag him toward the flat slab of rock in the middle of the shallow pool.

 _He cannot be serious,_ T’Challa thinks when he sees Erik fish the blade out of the water, his other hand still pinning the struggling man down. T’Challa snatches the spear out of the hand of the nearest Dora and throws it with all his might. The weapon sails through the air, and with a sharp crystal clang, knocks the vibranium blade flying out of Erik’s hand. It comes to a quivering stop between them, the gold shaft separating Erik from his almost victim.

“That is enough,” T’Challa calls out in the ensuing silence. Every eye is on him as he descends down the rocks and cautiously approaches the two alphas.

“You have won, let him go,” He commands, trying to keep his voice steady as Erik slowly straightens to face him. Heart pounding, T'Challa meets the pair of wild eyes beneath the jaguar mask.

“Let him go, please,” He puts a palm over Erik’s heaving chest like he’s trying to calm down a spooked animal. Erik hesitates, then, to T’Challa’s relief, he loosens his choking grip on the other man’s throat.

“Ask me who I am,” He growls, advancing on the king and forcing him to take a step back.

“I know who you are,” T’Challa says, voice cracking a little when he sees Ramonda put a hand over her mouth in the corner of his vision. “Erik, don’t—”

Erik pulls the mask off and flings it aside. He bares his teeth at the shocked crowd, “Yeah, that’s right. It’s me, you old bags,” He yells up at the wide-eyed Elders, “you think you can take my bitch away from me? Think again!”

“Erik, there are children present,” T’Challa tries to stop him, but the alpha ignores him and goes on cursing up at the scandalized Council members and Wakanda natives.

“—you know what, I'mma bend him over right now and fu—“

T’Challa grabs him by the front of his tunic and presses his mouth over Erik’s, silencing the spew of filth pouring from his alpha’s lips. With sharp teeth and bruising force, Erik surges against T'Challa who accepts it all with his signature calm.

“Eww, mama, they’re kissing…” He hears a child say from somewhere above. It is embarrassingly loud.

T'Challa brushes a thumb over Erik’s slightly bleeding lower lip and is pleased to see the slightly dazed look in those dark honeyed eyes when they break apart, both panting from the lack of oxygen. Then, before the alpha can react, T’Challa puts both palms over his chest and shoves hard. Erik lands on his backside in the water, sending up an impressive splashing spray in his attempt to remain upright.

“My champion, everyone,” T’Challa sighs, folding his arms behind his back.

Someone starts to giggle in the crowd, and soon everyone is joining in the whistling and clapping as the disoriented alpha sits up and spits out a mouthful of water with a grimace.

“Asshole,” Erik mutters, running his fingers through his sopping wet hair. Predictably, he ignores the helping hand T’Challa offers.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, can you teach us how to do that?” The little boy runs up to where Erik is sitting and demands.

“Teach you what?”

“How to do that cool spinning kick thing you did today?” He elaborates. The two other little boys both nod enthusiastically.

“Not the kissing part, that’s gross,” He adds quickly, and Erik chuckles.

“But that’s the best part,” Killmonger teases, “kicking the bad guy’s ass and kissing the girl, you know, like in the movies.”

The boys exchange looks with one another and stick out their tongues as one. Erik laughs at that. T’Challa, who has been watching the exchange from behind the pillar, has to hide his own smile.

“Alright, I’ll teach you, little man,” Erik promises, “but it takes a lot of hard work to do what I can do.”

“We don’t mind hardworking,” The boys pipe up together. They bump fists.

“Deal,” His alpha grins, and T’Challa sees a hint of the playful child Erik could have been growing up.

“Your Highness,” The kids notice him first. T’Challa smiles at their clumsy bow and dismisses the formality with a wave of his hand. They run off to reenact the fight between Erik and the alpha from the River Tribe with small branches as weapons.

"They aren't afraid of me," Erik murmurs, a small note of wonder in his quiet voice when T'Challa sits down next to him at the edge of the reflection pool.

"Children are often quick to forgive and forget," He says, watching the two little boys play-fighting in the shallow water, their bell-like laughter echoing off the stone arcs overhead as the dying sun paints a slash of red across the distant horizon.

"Not when you had to bury your own daddy," Erik says bitterly.

“No, I suppose not,” He replies sadly, and after a quiet companionable pause between them, T’Challa reaches across the short distance and tangles their fingers together. For the first time, Erik does not pull away.

“You took off my father’s ring,” T’Challa notices.

“Wearing anything on your fingers is a big no-no for any soldier, cuz,” Erik raises an eyebrow at him, “that’s why I kept my daddy’s ring around my neck.”

“Of course,” He nods, lifting Erik’s right hand into his lap and tracing the gun-callouses on his fingers and palm. There is a raised puckering scar in the center of his palm that T’Challa suspects had come from a bullet wound a long time ago.

“So what now? They gonna back off of you?” Erik asks.

T’Challa nods, “for now. The Elders are too afraid of you to try anything any time soon.”

“See? Told ya scaring ‘em gets the job done.”

“That is not how diplomacy works, Erik,” T’Challa chuckles a little.

“And your mom?”

“She is furious at Shuri, but you and I both know it won’t lead to anything.”

Erik whistles under his breath, “yeah, that sister of yours is a real piece of work.”

“Erik.”

“But she’s smart, I’ll give her that,” He says grudgingly. Then, glancing at T’Challa, he asks, “so we’re officially hitched according to Wakandan tradition?”

T’Challa laughs quietly and lifts Erik’s hand to brush a soft kiss over his knuckles, “something like that, yes.”

“Damn, not sure if I can stand the sight of you everyday for the rest of my life, cuz,” Erik elbows him with a smirk.

“Surely Shuri explained before she forced you into that arena,” T’Challa lifts an eyebrow.

“Who said she forced me?” His smirk widens, and it suddenly occurs to T’Challa that Erik is flirting with him. The thought makes his heartbeat quicken. Where Erik seems to ooze charm effortlessly, T’Challa tends to freeze and stumble over his words like a nervous child.

“Erik, I have something I need to tell you,” T’Challa blurts out before he can stop himself.

“What?” Erik asks just as another voice calls out, “T’Challa!”

It is Nakia, who has just escaped from the infirmary by the looks of the thick bandages around her left arm and shoulder. Shuri comes skidding in from the hallway behind Nakia, a medical diagnostic tool still clutched in one hand. The Dora Milaje, who are never far from T’Challa’s side, are quick to appear, Okoye at their head.

“We lost another one, my king,” Nakia says, ignoring Shuri’s attempts to drag her back to the hospital and the General’s disapproving scowl. “I barely got myself out of there, but I need more support if we are to liberate all the targeted women.”

“What’s she on about?” Erik asks, getting to his feet as well.

“The recent elections has led to turmoil in South Africa,” T’Challa explains with a frown, “Nakia has been undercover with a few members of the War Dogs in a trafficking ring.”

“We cannot just stand by and let the tragedies happen, not when they are preventable,” Nakia insists.

“Nakia, you know fully well that the others are in their assigned positions, we have none to spare,” Okoye says.

“No, Nakia is right, we cannot do nothing,” T’Challa cuts in before the two women can start arguing, “I will go with you.”

“Brother, you cannot!” Shuri hisses. T’Challa sees her eyes flickering lightning-quick down to his abdomen. He shakes his head at her minutely. Shuri’s jaw tightens stubbornly, “I won’t let you.”

“I’ll do it,” Erik says casually.

“What?!” All four of them turn to him as one.

“How good are you with a sniper rifle?” Nakia is the first to recover from the shock.

“You really need to ask that question?” He folds his arms over his chest.

“Fine,” She eyes the scars on Killmonger's exposed forearms, “we leave tomorrow at sunrise, with T’Challa’s permission, of course.”

Now all eyes are on him. T’Challa turns to Erik and asks, “is this really what you wish to do?”

Erik shrugs, “I’m not doing it for you, I’m doing it for my people.”

“No, of course not,” T’Challa replies. The omega part of him wants to refuse and keep his mate close, but he suppresses that instinct in favor of saying, “if it is Erik’s wishes, then I have no objections.”

"T'Challa, may I see you in my labs please," Shuri grits out between clenched teeth. "Now.”

“Very well, Okoye, escort Nakia back to the hospital,” T’Challa orders, “Erik, I will speak with you later. Shuri, lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

For Erik, there is nothing to pack.

He had come to Wakanda with the ring around his neck, the clothes on his back, and a dead man wrapped up in a bag. Now, on the cusp of leaving Wakanda, he doesn’t even have his clothes anymore, not after Shuri had ‘accidentally’ burned his favorite jacket the second week into his sentence. Just like his father before him, T’Challa has taken everything from Erik.

“I hear you are departing for South Africa tomorrow morning with Nakia,” W’Kabi is sitting on his couch when Erik gets back to his room some time later.

“Man, don’t you have a rhino to help give birth or something?” He mutters, stripping out of the stuffy ceremonial tunic and stretching his aching shoulders. Despite his loss, the idiot from the River Tribe packs a hard punch.

“Leaving so soon will seem like you are running from him,” W’Kabi observes mildly.

“I thought you were all for us helping out the people in need,” Erik reminds him. He shrugs on a clean white shirt and pulls open the drawer where he’d placed T’Chaka’s ring. It’s empty.

“I am, but that does not mean that you are not running away from your feelings, N’Jadaka.”

“I don’t have feelings, bro.”

W’Kabi shakes his head with an infuriating smile, “you can lie to yourself all you want, but we are not blind. Even my Beloved has admitted that she agrees with me, and she never does that unless the evidence is indisputable.”

“Don’t you have something better to do than wax poetry about that she-demon in front of me?” Erik pulls open another drawer and feels inside. The ring is not there either. He frowns and pats down the side of his pants.

“T’Challa came by earlier and took it, I think,” W’Kabi twists around on the couch and says.

Erik stops searching to shoot him an incredulous look, “Seriously dude, how long have you been here?”

 

* * *

 

T’Challa finds Erik waiting for him in his room after the celebration feast. Bathed in the cool silver moonlight pouring in from the balcony, Erik looks every bit the Wakandan native in his traditional robes. Earlier, the children had offered to put beads in his hair and paint his face, much to the alpha's annoyance.

“What’s with the frown?” Erik asks when catches sight of T’Challa. He smirks and approaches on silent feet, “you gonna miss my cock, pretty thing?”

T’Challa bats away Erik’s hand and makes his way over to the balcony, “there are plenty to choose from when you are gone.”

“That’s not what you were saying in front of the Elders, kitten,” Erik purrs in his ear, his hand reaching down to squeeze T’Challa’s ass. It is a childish exchange, like a game of Chicken where two kids hold their hands over an open flame until one pulls away. Or at least that is what T’Challa remembers from his conversation with Sam Wilson all those months ago. Erik is the child who will keep his hand there until it blisters just to win. T’Challa is not.

“You are right, I will miss this,” T’Challa looks him straight in the eyes and says. Erik snatches his hand away like he’s been electrocuted.

“Christ, quit goin' around sayin’ shit like that…” Erik mutters, eying him like a rabid animal about to bite.

“You are such a child sometimes,” T’Challa murmurs, shaking his head. “Nevertheless, please be careful out there.”

“I always am,” Erik shrugs, “so what were you going to tell me earlier today?”

 _You are going to be a father,_ T’Challa thinks. Instead, he says, “I had the royal rings melted down to make something else. I think it is time they are turned into something new to signal the dawn of a new era for Wakanda.”

“So is it for…down there?” Erik’s eyes flicker down to his own crotch.

“Don’t be vulgar,” T’Challa scolds. He pulls out the vibranium bracelet. It is a thin band with a simple woven design, strong and elegant. Erik visibly relaxes at the sight.

“You could’ve just said it was a bracelet,” He complains as T’Challa takes his left wrist, “also, isn’t it a little too girly for me, cuz?”

“It is for a princess,” T’Challa says, fastening the clasp with gentle fingers.

“Right, and here I thought we were past the childish insults,” Erik says, lifting his arm to peer at the thing. “Really, calling me ‘princess’?”

“You will understand someday,” T’Challa promises quietly.

“Whatever, man,” Erik rolls his eyes. Then, he leers and says, “so what do you wanna do with the rest of the night?”

 

* * *

 

The sky is a mournful grey when T’Challa opens his eyes to the soft whisper of rain drops outside the open window the next morning. He is sore but pleasantly warm despite the cool breeze. Erik feels like a furnace behind him, his scarred arms wrapped tightly around T’Challa’s waist. He can feel the alpha’s soft even breath against the back of his neck. T’Challa threads his fingers through the ones splayed over his belly.

“Bast give me strength,” He whispers, breathing in the damp salty scent of the sea wrapped around him. Erik sighs in his sleep and clings closer.

 _Five more minutes, I will allow myself five more minutes of this, no more no less,_ T’Challa thinks and closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

The only thing Erik brings with him is a half-empty knapsack.

T’Challa is there to see him off with Shuri, W’Kabi, and the Dora Milaje. The alpha wanders over while Nakia busies herself with the ship’s safety check.

“Good luck, N’Jadaka,” W’Kabi clasps forearms with him.

“Thanks man, good luck with that,” He jerks his chin at a scowling Okoye.

He nods at the Dora Milaje, “ladies.”

They glare at him. T’Challa clears his throat loudly.

“We wish you success, your highness,” They grudgingly recite. 

“Wow,” Erik laughs, “So you can teach an old bitch new tricks.”

Ayo growls.

Erik wisely decides to move on before she gets mad enough to go against T’Challa’s orders and stab him in the stomach with her spear.

Killmonger stops in front of Shuri and holds up a fist, "come on, you know you want to, lil' sis."

She rolls her eyes but reaches up and reluctantly presses her knuckles against his.

"Alright, now up top...and down below...ok, not quite, but we'll work on that."

T'Challa watches in amusement as Erik walks Shuri through their new secret handshake. His sister is still giggling when Erik turns his attention to T’Challa.

“So,” He says, coming to a stop in front of the King.

“So,” T’Challa returns, still smiling faintly.

The alpha sticks out a hand. T’Challa blinks, his smile disappearing at such a formal goodbye. Hesitantly, he takes Erik’s hand and shakes it stiffly.

“Man, the look on your face, kitten,” Killmonger smirks, reeling him in for an open-mouthed kiss.

“You are a _child_ ,” T’Challa whispers against his lips, hands coming up to cup the alpha’s face. He presses their foreheads together and breathes, “take care of yourself out there.”

Erik pulls him into another kiss and T’Challa loses track of his surroundings for a moment. When he pulls away, there’s something almost wistful in Erik’s expression, the way his eyes seem to roam over T’Challa’s face as if committing it to memory. Then, the alpha pulls away and winks at something behind T'Challa, a shit-eating grin stretched wide across his handsome face.

"Bye Auntie,” Killmonger drawls and dances out of the way when an approaching Ramonda lobs something that remotely resembles a slipper at his smug face. Last night, she’d flat-out refused to come see him off, but now here she was.

“You behave yourself out there, boy!” Ramonda yells at him. Erik throws her a mock salute and jumps onto the ship. He sticks up a middle finger that Shuri returns with a delighted cackle.

“This is crazy, but I think I’m actually going to miss the bastard,” Shuri says. She dramatically wipes an invisible tear from her eye. T’Challa laughs.

“Let me guess, you didn’t tell him,” Shuri links her arm through T’Challa’s as they watch the ship disappear into the rain.

“I didn’t think it right to make him choose,” T’Challa admits.

“Tell who what?” Ramonda asks, latching onto his other arm.

“Well, guess what, Mother, you are going to be—”

“Shuri, no!”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, you guys are AMAZING. Thank you so much for the lovely names. I decided to go with Marjani_O_Cotton's suggestion, but I did use a few more from other comments throughout the chapter!
> 
> Note: the POV jumps between the two of them through this chapter. I felt it necessary to tell the story, but it kinda annoyed me a bit, so I thought I'd point it out. Lol. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Me, a grandmother, who would have thought the day would come so—”

“Mother, please stop,” T’Challa puts down the treaty documents from the United Nations and turns to aim a reproachful look at Ramonda. "You are being a distraction. Besides, your granddaughter still has many moons before she is due."

“It is never too early, boy,” She harrumphs before sweeping out of the room in her fiery red gown.

T’Challa pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales slowly. “You really had to jump the gun and tell her, sister?”

Shuri, who is engrossed in the little metal rectangle in her hands, merely laughs.

“What are you doing?” T’Challa asks, giving up on doing more paperwork and wandering over to join her by the window.

“Your boy toy was right, this game is strangely addictive,” Shuri waves the American phone in his face and grins. “Even if I didn’t tell her that day, she would’ve found out by now, brother. You are slowly but surely bloating to the size of a beached whale.”

“Why 'beached'?” He asks absently, passing a palm over the slight swell of his belly.

“Because they are helpless and can’t move,” Shuri cackles. He pinches her ear in retaliation. Their little cat fight ends with Shuri sprawled halfway across T’Challa’s lap, her cheek resting against his abdomen and his fingers carding gently through her braids.

“I know it’s stupid but I kind of miss him, T’Challa,” Shuri murmurs in the comfortable silence, “do you?”

“It is not stupid, dear one,” He smiles at her and leans down to press a fond kiss to his sister’s forehead.

 

* * *

 

The weeks stretch into months.

When Nakia’s message arrives, T’Challa thinks he does indeed resemble a distressed marine mammal in girth and size. Her tone is triumphant when she reports that they have eradicated the trafficking ring, liberated the kidnapped women, and helped set up a support center at a local village. She does not mention Erik’s name until the end where she says he has left for Hong Kong to aid Isoke in the capture of an ivory poacher, and that she along with a few other War Dogs are thinking of making Erik a permanent member.

“So he’s not coming back?” There is a note of disappointment in Shuri’s voice.

“He is happy doing what he is doing, Shuri,” T’Challa says, “that is what is important.”

“But what about…” She trails off.

“I am not so weak and needy that I cannot function without my mate at my side, sister,” T’Challa tells her firmly, “this is good news, he is doing his part to make the world a safer place for his daughter. I am going to do the same. Come, Shuri, we have much to attend to today.”

She surprises him by throwing her arms around his shoulders and saying, “you don’t have to be so strong all the time, T’Challa. You’re not alone in this. I’m here.”

He closes his eyes and hugs her back tightly, hoping to convey his gratitude through the gesture.

“Of course. Thank you, sister.”

 

* * *

 

She comes screaming into the world at dawn when the first golden rays of the sun break through the clouds to shine upon Wakanda’s land, and when the midwife places her into T’Challa’s arms, he sees that she has Erik’s eyes, fiercely bright and so full of life.

“She is beautiful,” Ramonda presses a loving kiss to T’Challa’s sweaty temple and wraps her arms around him. Shuri bursts into tears and throws herself on top of the three of them. She muffles her sobs in T’Challa’s neck and he runs a comforting hand over her back.

“What are you going to name her?” Shuri asks between sniffles as she wipes at her wet face. He smiles down at the quiet infant peering up at him with those familiar eyes.

“Amara.”

 

* * *

 

It soon becomes apparent that Amara takes after Erik in more ways than one. By six months, she has either peed or pooped on every member of the Council of Elders, three times with Nakia’s father because he adores her so much and refuses to learn his lesson. T’Challa thinks Erik would be ridiculously proud if he ever finds out.

He assigns three of the Dora Milaje to keep an eye on her when he’s going about his everyday duties as King, but Amara seems to find new and exciting ways to slip from their grasps.

“My fishermen found her floating in a barrel down the river,” M’Baku lifts the massive hand where Amara is dangling like a monkey. She’s busy teething on his thumb and ignoring all the panicked adults in the room who had spent nearly two hours scouring half the country for her.

“Gratitude, M’Baku,” T’Challa finally breathes a sigh of relief and slumps down on his throne.

“You know, my second oldest, Nahanda, was like her when she was little,” M’Baku says thoughtfully, putting Amara onto his fur-clad shoulder where she giggles in delight and starts pulling at his ears.

“Does it ever get better?” T’Challa asks desperately.

“Nah,” M’Baku flashes him a wide grin that looks more like a grimace when Amara grabs his nose, “it gets much much worse, my friend.”

T’Challa buries his face in his hands.

 

* * *

 

It does indeed get much much worse after Amara learns to speak in full sentences.

“Why, Baba?" The little girl on T'Challa's lap tugs on his collar and demands.

"Because, there are many things that your father needs to attend to outside of Wakanda, sweetling,” He answers absently, scrawling another signature on the bottom of the page to approve the additional funding for the Oakland institute next year. Ross, who has come bearing great news about their progress, is sitting across from him, a thick folder spread out in front of him with more forms.

“But my second birthday!” Amara bangs a tiny fist into the table for emphasis and T’Challa briefly wonders if she has been spending too much time around the Jabari leader.

“You must be patient, cub, your father will return to us when he is ready,” T’Challa drops his chin atop her head and murmurs. He hands back the signed forms to Ross and says, “I take it you have been keeping an eye on Erik.”

Amara perks up at the sound of her daddy’s name.

“We try, but I get the feeling he only lets us see what he wants us to see,” Ross answers with a downward twist of his lips, “he dropped off the radar somewhere between Johannesburg and Cairo two weeks ago.”

“I see.”

Everette Ross eyes him and the little girl perched in his lap and asks, “has he not contacted you since...?”

The hesitant words feel like claws digging into that small vulnerable corner of T’Challa’s heart. He shakes his head, “not personally, no. Nakia and the other War Dogs occasionally have updates of his whereabouts.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ross says, and T’Challa sees the man's hand go to the ring around his own finger. As if sensing her baba’s mood change, Amara wraps her arms around T’Challa’s neck and lays her head over his shoulder, her soft clean scent enveloping him like a comforting hug.

 

* * *

 

T’Challa comes out of one of the longest and most mind-numbingly boring meetings in his life to find Shuri standing in the corridor, talking to herself and wringing her hands in distress.

“Don’t be mad, but…” She starts, cringes away from the four scowling women holding sharp pointy things in their hands that follow T’Challa out of the room.

He frowns, “did you lose Amara?”

“Not lose, temporarily misplaced,” She corrects, “we were out exploring and she was so excited to see the pretty flowers—”

“Didn’t you put a tracking bracelet on her?” T’Challa asks tensely.

“Yeah, about that,” Shuri bites her lip, “It must have been turned off, I’m not getting a signal.”

“Maybe M’Baku’s people will find her floating off to sea in a bucket again,” He groans and runs a hand over his exhausted face. “Aneka, Shuri, with me, the rest go with Ayo and Okoye. Do not let my mother know. I cannot deal with the nagging right now.”

 

* * *

 

It has been two years, seven month and four days since Erik stepped foot in Wakanda. Dayo, one of his fellow War Dogs with whom he had struck up an odd friendship, had agreed to set him down at the edge of Wakanda’s territory. She doesn’t seem to understand why he would want to spend the extra days trekking his way to the palace on foot with nothing but an empty backpack slung over one shoulder. Erik doesn’t know why either, but he waves her off when she asks again and sets off into the trees.

This time it feels different somehow, like Wakanda actually welcomes his presence. The muted black and navy colors of his clothes identify him as one of the War Dogs, and as Erik passes through the villages, he is pleasantly surprised when the women greet him like a long lost son. They offer him food and drink. He declines the offer of lodging and keeps moving.

It is a soothing journey, silent but for the sound of the lively forest around him, and Erik has never slept better in his entire life. He dreams on the second night. It’s the same one he’s had ever since he left Wakanda, of walking in a forest and chancing upon a stream where two black panthers are drinking. The sunlight streaming past the thick green canopy above creates a golden dappled pattern on the pelt of the little one. This time, the youngling glances up when Erik accidentally snaps a stick beneath his boot and he sees the cub’s golden eyes as it opens its pink mouth and meows at him.

He wakes to the sound of loud cawing overhead and a few seconds later, something cool and wet plops onto his shoulder.

“You gotta be fucking with me,” Erik moans.

Erik knows he’s already in the Panther Tribe’s territories, because yesterday a young girl had called him ‘your highness’ when he passed through their village. The palace is not far from here.

 _Even T’Challa’s birds are against him,_ Erik thinks as he goes off in search of a nearby water source to wash the remnants of bird poop off his shoulder. He does not realize that things look hauntingly familiar until he hears the trickling of the stream. The position of the trees makes Erik pause and the sense of déjà vu hits him again as he steps through the thick underbrush.

It is the exact stream he has seen in his dreams, except there are no panthers drinking from the water.

Instead, there is a small girl seated on the bank, sniffing softly in distress and chewing on a corner of her dress.

Erik’s right boot lands on a dry branch and she turns at the sharp crack to stare at him with familiar red-rimmed eyes.

He realizes with a jolt that she is the little cub from his dreams.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry, your Majesty, we have nothing,” Ayo’s hologram says apologetically.

“It will get dark soon,” T’Challa murmurs, looking up at the setting sun with worried eyes.

“We will not rest until we find our precious princess, my King,” Aneka promises.

Shuri, who has been fiddling with the programming of the tracking bracelet for the past hour, suddenly lets out a triumphant cry. “I rewrote the program and got the tracker to turn on remotely!”

“Where is she?” T’Challa runs over to his sister.

Shuri frowns at the hologram, “it says she’s in the palace…”

 

* * *

 

T’Challa finds Amara sitting on his bed, left cheek streaked with mud but very much uninjured. She runs into his arms the moment she sees him, and T’Challa buries his face in her hair, his knees going weak with relief.

“Never run off like that again, Amara,” He pulls back and scolds as Shuri and Aneka come rushing in close behind, “Never, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Baba,” She says quietly, reaching up to rub at her eyes. T’Challa spots the silver bracelet around her wrist and feels his heart come to a screeching stop. He had given that bracelet to Erik the night before he’d left Wakanda.

“Brother, are you ok?” Shuri asks when he springs to his feet and picks Amara up.

“I’m fine,” T’Challa says, willing his voice not to betray him, “I would like a word alone with my daughter.”

“Who gave this to you, cub?” He asks the moment the girls leave.

“Daddy,” Amara answers.

“He’s here?” T’Challa asks, making his way over to the heavyset curtains and pulling them apart. Erik would be just childish enough to try and jump out to scare him.

“Really, behind the curtains. What am I, six years old?” An amused voice asks, and T’Challa whirls around to see Erik standing in the doorway. He's dressed in the standard black War Dog uniform and combat boots, arms folded loosely in front of his chest. T’Challa’s heart does a little funny flip as he takes in the sight of his alpha. Erik's hair has gotten longer. He’s braided the dreads back and secured them into a top knot at the back of his head with a piece of worn leather. There’s a week’s worth of stubble on Erik's cheeks and a pale crescent scar beneath his left eye, but the rest of him seems untouched by time.

Still smiling, he opens his arms and says, “come here, Princess.”

The child in T’Challa’s arms wriggles excitedly and he gently sets her down on her feet, watching with dazed eyes as Amara dives into her father’s arms without an ounce of hesitation. Erik picks her up and sets her on his hip with practiced ease. Side by side, the resemblance is uncanny between father and daughter.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Erik asks, turning his eyes on T’Challa.

“I didn’t want you to have to choose,” T’Challa admits.

“You thought I’d choose you over helping my people?” Erik lifts an eyebrow.

“No, but you would’ve chosen her,” T’Challa points out, forcing his voice to stay steady.

Something heated flashes in Erik’s eyes. His jaw clenches. “You didn’t have the right to decide that for me, T’Challa.”

“Brother, I forgot to tell you—” Shuri pokes her head back in and stops speaking. For a long moment, she just stares, then with an unearthly shriek, she tackles Erik at a full run. He stumbles under the force and Amara giggles.

“You tryin’ out for a football team, lil’ sis?” Erik laughs, steadying her with an arm around her shoulder.

“You bastard!" Shuri punches him in the chest and yells, “Do you know how much my brother missed you? Running off for so long without a single word, he was so worried!”

“Yeah?” Erik meets T’Challa’s eyes over the top of Shuri’s head, “doesn’t seem like it to me.”

T’Challa bites his lip and looks away.

“We both missed you, daddy,” Amara pipes up, “but Baba said we had to be strong because you were busy saving the world.”

“Did he now?” Erik asks slowly, rounding on T’Challa.

“I told the truth,” The King replies, finally meeting his alpha’s gaze.

“Baby girl, daddy’s gotta chat with your baba,” Erik murmurs to the child in his arms before handing her over to Shuri, “behave with your auntie, ok?”

“Ok,” Their daughter chirps back. He grins and ruffles her hair.

Shuri’s eyes flicker between the two men, and to T’Challa’s horror, his sister blushes and scampers off without another word.

“Have you eaten?” T’Challa tries to fill the ensuing silence with polite conversation, but Erik is watching him like a hawk, expression unreadable. “You must be hungry. I could get the kitchen to make something…”

He trails off when Erik cups his jaw with a calloused palm.

“ _I’m starving,_ ” The alpha says.

 

* * *

 

The bathwater feels like heaven against Erik’s skin when he strips naked and steps into the pool without hesitation. He dives under and resurfaces, groaning at the sensation. T’Challa follows at a more dignified pace, carefully folding his robes before easing himself into the water. Erik watches from the other side as he moves closer, the little ripples of disturbed water slapping softly against his skin.

"Did it hurt?" T'Challa asks, settling down beside him. Erik knows he’s talking about the War Dog Oath tattooed along the line of his spine.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” He replies.

T’Challa surprises him by leaning over and pressing a timid kiss against his shoulder. Erik catches a whiff of that familiar soft rose smell and the instinct to bury his face into his omega’s scent is is cripplingly strong.

“You named her after my mom,” He clears his throat and says instead.

“It is a beautiful name,” T’Challa says with a serene smile.

“Yeah, beautiful,” Erik murmurs, unable to take his eyes off of his omega’s face. He surges forward and presses his mouth over T’Challa’s. He moans against Erik’s lips and allows the alpha to manhandle him over to sit at the edge of the pool. Erik breaks the kiss when the need for oxygen becomes too much to ignore.

He notices the faint scar across the chistled planes of T'Challa's abdomen and asks after a pause, "did it hurt?"

“Nothing I couldn’t handle," comes the soft reply. He looks up to see T’Challa smiling fondly at him.

Erik leans down and presses a trail of reverent kiss over the omega’s belly. T’Challa’s breath catches when he moves lower.

“You don’t have to,” He says, a little breathless.

“I want to,” Erik says and swallows him down. T’Challa’s hands twist into his hair as Erik hums around the rapidly hardening length in his mouth. Here between T’Challa’s spread thighs, his scent is strongest. Erik groans and spreads him wider. He licks a broad swipe down the wet slit behind T’Challa balls and grins.

“Hey sweetheart, I missed you,” He purrs, lapping at the slick at the omega’s entrance.

T’Challa swats the back of his head. His fingers tighten in Erik’s dreads when he buries his tongue inside that hot clenching heat and _licks_. A deep shudder goes through his omega and Erik feels a warm gush of wetness against his lips as T’Challa’s legs squeeze around his shoulders. His stubbled jaw is dripping wet when he straightens and licks his lips.

“Bed, kitten?” Erik proposes.

T’Challa nods wordlessly.

 

* * *

 

The sound that comes out of his mouth when Erik sinks teeth into the round supple flesh of his ass is embarrassingly close to a squeal.

“Fuck, I missed this,” Erik mutters behind him and delivers a stinging slap against his backside. Unfortunately, it only serves to make T’Challa wetter than he already is. Rough hands grab fistful of flesh and T'Challa has to bite down on the sheets when he feels Erik slot his hard cock between his ass cheeks.

“This ass, I swear to God,” Erik growls and pulls him to a kneeling position.

“Fuck me, Erik, please,” T’Challa gasps, and Erik hilts himself inside with one vicious thrust. The alpha doesn’t give him time to adjust before he starts pounding T’Challa against the bed, shoving in so hard he sees stars. The rhythm is brutally fast and hard, and the orgasm feels like it’s been punched out of him when T’Challa comes a second time, his release running down his slick-soaked inner thigh and painting the sheets in ropes of white. Erik pulls out and jacks a hand over his cock. T’Challa feels the alpha’s hot seed against the back of his thigh and buttocks.

“Give me a couple of minutes and we can go again,” Erik presses a kiss to the back of his neck. T’Challa sighs contentedly when Erik lays down and pulls him close.

“So I hear Amara takes after me, huh?” He asks, thumb rubbing gentle circles into the skin at T'Challa’s hip.

“Too much,” T’Challa agrees with a soft laugh.

“We can always make another one,” Erik teases, “maybe the next one’ll be more like you.”

“Yeah?” He rolls on top of the alpha. Erik draws in a sharp breath when T’Challa lets him back inside that warm wet channel.

“Yeah,” Erik groans when T’Challa starts riding him slowly, “I’m gonna be here this time, kitten.”

T’Challa clenches around Erik’s cock and sinks back down, smiling at the way the alpha’s jaw tightens.

“Nakia will not be pleased,” He says evenly.

“Fuck Nakia, I don’t take orders from her.”

“Do you take orders from me?” T’Challa grinds down and takes him deep. Erik’s hips twitch up involuntarily, but he shakes his head stubbornly.

“We have all night to change your mind, Erik,” T’Challa smiles.

 

* * *

 

When T’Challa wakes, Erik is no longer in bed.

He finds the alpha curled up on the balcony with their daughter in his lap, a thick quilt wrapped snugly around her shoulders to ward off the morning chill. Both are fast asleep. The first rays of the sun are starting to break through the clouds in the distance when T’Challa sits down next to them. Erik stirs and opens his eyes.

“Hey,” T’Challa smiles.

“You were right before,” Erik says quietly.

“About?”

“I would’ve chosen you over them,” Erik admits, “it scared me, that’s why I didn’t come back when the first mission ended.”

T’Challa keeps silent and Erik laughs softly. 

“You know, you and your daddy have one thing in common,” He says, eyeing T’Challa.

“What’s that?”

“You just keep on taking and taking and taking, all that anger and hate I held on for so long…you’re fu- freaking relentless.”

“What is left then?” T’Challa dares to ask.

Erik rolls his eyes, “I know what you want me to say, but I’m not falling for it.”

“No?” T’Challa asks, feeling the warm fluttery sensation settle in the pit of his stomach. In a bold move, he reaches over, cups Erik’s face between his palms and presses a kiss to his forehead. “How about now?”

“Nope, nice try,” Erik exhales on a laugh but doesn’t pull away.

T’Challa kisses the bridge of his nose, “now?”

“Gotta try harder, babe,” Erik smirks.

“How about now?” T’Challa whispers against his lips. The kiss is a sweet lazy languid thing, and when they pull apart, they find Amara peering up at them, fully awake and utterly confused.

“Give daddy a kiss, Princess?” Erik points to his cheek. Amara wiggles closer and lays a loud wet one on her father’s chin. He laughs and tightens his arms around her. Keeping his eyes on T’Challa, Erik leans over and whispers something in Amara’s ear.

She giggles and says, “I love you too, daddy.”

T’Challa shakes his head with a smile when Erik mouths _‘try harder’_ at him over the top of their daughter’s head.

“I’m sure I will change your mind,” He murmurs against Erik’s grinning lips, “just like I did last night.”

 

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All done! Thank you for reading and drop me a comment if you have time! 
> 
> I might have more for this pairing (although to be honest, probably not), but feel free to send me some prompts.


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